Just another typical father-daughter exchange.
ME: Why would you have a layover all the way over there? Asia is east of here.
DAD: West.
ME: East. You know, the east meets west thing.
DAD: Asia is to the west.
ME: I’ve seen a map. North America is way on the west and Asia is way on the east.
DAD: You’re talking about one of those flat maps?
ME: Yeah, like that big one in our house growing up. North America is one the left side and Asia’s on the right side.
DAD: Left? Right?
ME: Yes.
DAD: bebe Me. The EARTH. IS ROUND.
8/12/2010
8/03/2010
And I haven’t gotten my wise self up off my knees ever since
You may remember when I was passing off assignments from my writing class as original blog posts. One of the assignments I didn’t post was a letter to my future self. Partly because I thought it might be fun to post it in the future, but mostly because I’d forgotten to do the assignment.
I tried to write a letter to my past self once, but writing a letter to someone that dumb wasn't so fun after all. But writing a letter to a hypothetically wiser version of myself? Kind of intriguing. I started making mental notes as soon as it was assigned. I had a million ideas flying around in my head. But on the day we were supposed to bring it in a stamped, addressed envelope so that our teacher could mail it to us sometime in the future, I was hanging around in the creative lab when a girl in my class asked me about my letter. I cursed my inner ditz, looked at the time and ripped a 4X6 sheet of paper out of my notebook. And this is what I scribbled:
I got this little missive in the mail recently. I remembered something about having a whole lot of brilliant ideas that I’d planned to write about until I ran out of time. But I couldn’t remember any of those ideas.
And then I thought, Ideas, Schmideas. That second paragraph nailed it.
I tried to write a letter to my past self once, but writing a letter to someone that dumb wasn't so fun after all. But writing a letter to a hypothetically wiser version of myself? Kind of intriguing. I started making mental notes as soon as it was assigned. I had a million ideas flying around in my head. But on the day we were supposed to bring it in a stamped, addressed envelope so that our teacher could mail it to us sometime in the future, I was hanging around in the creative lab when a girl in my class asked me about my letter. I cursed my inner ditz, looked at the time and ripped a 4X6 sheet of paper out of my notebook. And this is what I scribbled:
Hello there you (me),
You’ve got to be smarter now than you were on Nov. 25, 2008, that being the day you were supposed to turn in this letter to yourself and then you forgot because you are ridiculous. So this is all you get.
Get down on your knees and thank God and the Universe that you are NOT. IN. SCHOOL.
Get to work.
I got this little missive in the mail recently. I remembered something about having a whole lot of brilliant ideas that I’d planned to write about until I ran out of time. But I couldn’t remember any of those ideas.
And then I thought, Ideas, Schmideas. That second paragraph nailed it.
8/02/2010
Not yet a woman
A little earlier this summer, I was lounging on my sofa watching TV when I felt a snap! under my shirt. Startled, I sat up in utter confusion. Because the snap felt a lot like my bra had just broken in the front. MY bra. The one that covers my very flat chest. A flat chest that apparently just BUSTED OUT OF ITS BRA.
Well, I thought, I’m finally turning into a woman.
So a few days later, I went to Victoria’s Secret.
ME (with unbridled pride in my new womanliness): Hello. I need a new bra. You see, I busted out of my old one.
SALESPERSON: Ah. I see. What size do you wear?
ME: 34B
SALESPERSON (eyeing my bust suspiciously): Ok, but it looks like you might need a bigger cup size.
ME (beaming): Wonderful. Well, I’ll show it to you when I’ve tried it on.
Standing in the fitting room, wearing one of the 34B bras.
ME: Well, here it is. What do you think?
SALESPERSON: Ah yes - you’re going to need a smaller cup. I’ll just bring around some A cups.
Nope, still not a woman.
Well, I thought, I’m finally turning into a woman.
So a few days later, I went to Victoria’s Secret.
ME (with unbridled pride in my new womanliness): Hello. I need a new bra. You see, I busted out of my old one.
SALESPERSON: Ah. I see. What size do you wear?
ME: 34B
SALESPERSON (eyeing my bust suspiciously): Ok, but it looks like you might need a bigger cup size.
ME (beaming): Wonderful. Well, I’ll show it to you when I’ve tried it on.
Standing in the fitting room, wearing one of the 34B bras.
ME: Well, here it is. What do you think?
SALESPERSON: Ah yes - you’re going to need a smaller cup. I’ll just bring around some A cups.
Nope, still not a woman.
8/01/2010
That’s alright because I like the way it hurts (the last sappy intern moment)
About a year ago, I graduated. I had a complete portfolio. It won a national award. My teachers told me I knew what I was doing. Professionals told me I knew what I was doing. I told myself I knew what I was doing. But actually, I wasn’t all that certain if I, you know, knew what I was doing.
It took me sixteen years to trust my gut as a violinist. And I still remember the moment it happened. It was right before I graduated from college. I was being torn down and insulted by my studio teacher. He was not a teacher I’d chosen. He was a teacher who had been brought in to fill the position of the teacher I did choose. She’d passed away the year before. And as I stood there, listening to this new teacher who’d known me for less than one year, I suddenly knew. I just knew. That he was a violinist with an opinion that was different from mine. Not a teacher who I had to believe because I didn’t know enough yet.
As soon as I started the creative program in grad school, I started wondering when I’d feel that way as a copywriter. It didn’t happen when I graduated. Or won awards. It didn’t happen when I landed the internship and started working. I felt ok, confident enough. But I didn’t know.
Until the last part of my internship when two things happened. The first thing was that I created an ad campaign. Not for work, but for my personal portfolio. Just me and my art director from school who I’d roped into helping me in exchange for inordinate amounts of coffee and Eatzi’s. This was not just a new campaign, but one that included more than a paragraph of copy. One that veered from my usual funny, sassy or tongue-in-cheek into the rarely explored heartfelt. It was unfamiliar and it was painful. I spent evenings and weekends staring at a blank page, breaking out into a mournful “I SUCK” or two (hundred). Then starting all over again. And again. And again. You know, the usual. But this time, my art director and I couldn’t count on office hours and weekly in-class critiques to help us annihilate the bad ideas and play “keep or kill” with my copy. We had to trust our instincts.
Then it came time to show it to someone else. I chose to unveil this new unfunny, uncheeky campaign to the mid-level copywriter on my team at work. My heart was so far up my throat that I could taste my aorta. Unfortunate since I also felt like I was going to lose a week’s worth of lunch. I braced myself for bloody murder. Which is why I wanted to write her into my will when she liked it. Really genuinely liked it. And everyone else that saw it – including the president of the agency – liked it too. And that is when I started to trust.
The second thing that happened was alarmingly similar to the violin situation. Except that this time, my portfolio and ideas were being lacerated by someone I have long admired and respected. Even revered. So you’d think I’d have been on my knees, peeling fragments of my heart off the floor. But I wasn’t. And somewhere amid hearing the word “WRONG” over and over again, that feeling finally came. I thought of all the work I’d been doing at my internship. Work that was accepted, purchased, produced. I thought of the new campaign that had just bled out of the pores of my brain. And I looked at the portfolio that he found so vile. And I still liked it.
Then I knew. This person is not a god. He is a talented and successful advertising person with an opinion that is different from mine. Good for him. But good for me too. Because y’all, I know I have a lot more to learn. Years of colossal failures and small triumphs more to learn. But I’ll be damned if I let myself believe I don’t know a bit about what I’m doing right now.
It took me sixteen years to trust my gut as a violinist. And I still remember the moment it happened. It was right before I graduated from college. I was being torn down and insulted by my studio teacher. He was not a teacher I’d chosen. He was a teacher who had been brought in to fill the position of the teacher I did choose. She’d passed away the year before. And as I stood there, listening to this new teacher who’d known me for less than one year, I suddenly knew. I just knew. That he was a violinist with an opinion that was different from mine. Not a teacher who I had to believe because I didn’t know enough yet.
As soon as I started the creative program in grad school, I started wondering when I’d feel that way as a copywriter. It didn’t happen when I graduated. Or won awards. It didn’t happen when I landed the internship and started working. I felt ok, confident enough. But I didn’t know.
Until the last part of my internship when two things happened. The first thing was that I created an ad campaign. Not for work, but for my personal portfolio. Just me and my art director from school who I’d roped into helping me in exchange for inordinate amounts of coffee and Eatzi’s. This was not just a new campaign, but one that included more than a paragraph of copy. One that veered from my usual funny, sassy or tongue-in-cheek into the rarely explored heartfelt. It was unfamiliar and it was painful. I spent evenings and weekends staring at a blank page, breaking out into a mournful “I SUCK” or two (hundred). Then starting all over again. And again. And again. You know, the usual. But this time, my art director and I couldn’t count on office hours and weekly in-class critiques to help us annihilate the bad ideas and play “keep or kill” with my copy. We had to trust our instincts.
Then it came time to show it to someone else. I chose to unveil this new unfunny, uncheeky campaign to the mid-level copywriter on my team at work. My heart was so far up my throat that I could taste my aorta. Unfortunate since I also felt like I was going to lose a week’s worth of lunch. I braced myself for bloody murder. Which is why I wanted to write her into my will when she liked it. Really genuinely liked it. And everyone else that saw it – including the president of the agency – liked it too. And that is when I started to trust.
The second thing that happened was alarmingly similar to the violin situation. Except that this time, my portfolio and ideas were being lacerated by someone I have long admired and respected. Even revered. So you’d think I’d have been on my knees, peeling fragments of my heart off the floor. But I wasn’t. And somewhere amid hearing the word “WRONG” over and over again, that feeling finally came. I thought of all the work I’d been doing at my internship. Work that was accepted, purchased, produced. I thought of the new campaign that had just bled out of the pores of my brain. And I looked at the portfolio that he found so vile. And I still liked it.
Then I knew. This person is not a god. He is a talented and successful advertising person with an opinion that is different from mine. Good for him. But good for me too. Because y’all, I know I have a lot more to learn. Years of colossal failures and small triumphs more to learn. But I’ll be damned if I let myself believe I don’t know a bit about what I’m doing right now.
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